"It's all too much, you know? I mean, I'm tired, but there's too much to see and do. It won't last long enough."
"You may feel differently this time next week."
"I won't," she said. "It's the adventure of a lifetime, right?"
"You'll have to work your butt off in the next few days," he said.
"Not all of it, I hope."
A subtle movement in the tree beside her caught his eye, and Remo's hand flashed out, almost too fast for Audrey's eyes to follow.
"What—?"
He held the wriggling viper up in front of her, gripped close behind its spade-shaped head, the body twining fluidly around his forearm. Remo checked the coloration of its scales and smiled at Audrey.
"Trimeresurus flavoviridis," he announced.
"It's poisonous?"
"Sharp local pain and hemorrhages of the internal organs," he replied. "Intensive bleeding from the bite itself is not uncommon."
As he spoke, he flung the snake away from him, out toward the middle of the stream. It splashed down, quickly surfaced, started swimming for the distant shore.
"You have quick hands," she said.
"Sometimes."
"I guess you saved my life."
"My pleasure," Remo said.
"How can I ever thank you?"
"Well… "
"I know," she said. "I'll improvise."
Remo watched as she began unbuttoning her shirt. "I warned you once about the swimming," he reminded her.
"Who says I'm going in the water?"
Sometime in between the pitching of her tent and trailing Remo to the stream, she had removed her bra. Not that she needs one, Remo thought. Her breasts were firm and round, defying gravity, with nipples that seemed tawny but would almost certainly be pink in daylight.
She dropped the blouse behind her, moving faster as she started on the buckle of her belt. It stalled her for a moment, Audrey blushing, but she got it then, unsnapped her jeans and ran the zipper down. Paused long enough to work her shoes off, treating Remo to a bit of jiggle in the process. Rolled snug denim down across hips, buttocks, thighs.
No panties, either, he observed.
"Is this what they call dressing for success?"
"Depends on what your goal is," she replied. "Now, you."
"We hardly know each other," Remo said.
"That's about to change."
"You think so?"
Audrey moved against him, toasty velvet. "I insist on seeing what else you can do besides catch snakes," she said.
And Remo showed her, starting slowly, using only some of the specific skills Chiun had taught him in the early days. His fingers came together at the small of Audrey's back, the touch enough to make her squirm against him, yet so light he barely grazed her skin. A dip to trace the cleft between her buttocks, then his hands rose higher, following the sleek curve of her spine to tease the nape of Audrey's neck. She trembled, moaning softly as she clasped her hands behind his neck and leaned against him, almost going limp.
Sex is a combination of psychology and physiology—the former more anticipation than achievement, while the latter is controlled by pressure, friction, heat and cold. Sinanju recognized three distinct techniques for bringing women to the pinnacle of sexual fulfillment. One method used twenty-seven steps, another thirty-seven and the last mode fifty-two—although Chiun was adamant that only a Korean woman could survive the total treatment with her sanity intact.
Remo started teasing her, beginning with the insides of her ears, then down the side of Audrey's neck. He found her pulse and lingered there, tap-tapping until she sighed in rapture before he moved down to the hollow of her throat. Her legs would not support her now, and all her weight was on his shoulders until Remo marched her three steps backward and leaned her against the nearest tree. He guided Audrey's hands above her head and showed her how to grip a branch to keep from falling down.
"Hang on," he said.
"God, yes!"
He picked up where he had left off, and it was getting hard to hold her back.
"Please hurry!"
Another breathless gasp came from Audrey as he gave her what she wanted, and he protected the sensation until her spasms had subsided into small, involuntary tremors.
"Act Two is next," he told her, rising to his feet.
"I can't," she moaned.
"You will."
"Too much!"
But she could handle it all right, although she was a quivering mess until her release came again, followed by a long, slow drift into the afterglow.
They lay together on the mossy ground, and after several moments Audrey started giggling. She pressed her face against his chest to mute the sound, but couldn't seem to stop.
"What's funny?" Remo asked her.
"Nothing, Jesus! It was—" Audrey hesitated, speechless for a moment. "I just realized, you're not a screamer after all."
"I'm screaming on the inside," Remo said.
"Tell me about it. I believe I shorted something out."
"I'll check your wiring for you," Remo told her, reaching down between her thighs.
She caught his wrist. "Not on your life! My life, I mean. You think they have a Flight for Life out here in case of strokes or heart attacks?"
She was coherent, but her eyes were slightly glazed, and Remo thought perhaps it was a good thing that his demonstration hadn't gone beyond the thirteen basic steps. It would be awkward, carting Audrey through the jungle on a litter, and they didn't have a straitjacket.
"We should be getting back," she said a moment later, stirring feebly, reaching for her clothes.
"I'll help you."
"No," she said. "I still know how to dress myself."
It took her three attempts to put her jeans on, though, before she got her balance back. The rest of it was simple by comparison, and with her clothes on, she looked more or less composed.
"You ought to package that," she told him. "You could make a killing."
"It requires a certain inspiration," Remo lied.
"And sweet talk, too. The total package. Do they teach that in New Orleans?"
Remo smiled. "I pick up bits and pieces as I go along," he said.
"I'll bet you do. All kinds of pieces, with a touch like that."
"We aim to please."
"Your aim was perfect," Audrey told him. "I can't wait to try some more of that once I regain my strength."
"If we have time," he said.
"I'll make time," Audrey answered, moving in to kiss him lightly on the lips. "We'd better not go back together, just in case."
"All right."
He watched her go, took time to check his pulse and blood pressure. Both normal, well below the average. Remo let five minutes pass before he followed Audrey back in the direction of the sleeping camp.
And this time, he was unaware of being followed through the trees.
Chapter Ten
The morning summoned mixed reactions from his traveling companions, Remo noted as he moved about the camp. Stockwell and Sibu Sandakan were visibly fatigued and out of shape, but each seemed anxious to continue with the march. Pike Chalmers was the same as ever—surly, misanthropic, with a hard gleam in his eye that spoke to Remo of a personal agenda he was keeping hidden. As for Audrey, while the early-morning sun highlighted shadows underneath her eyes, as if from weariness, she seemed to have a new spring in her step.
"I haven't slept that well in years," she said to Remo, passing on her way to make a pit stop in the forest. "That's some bedside manner, Dr. Ward."
"I try to keep my hand in," Remo told her.
"So I noticed. Don't waste too much energy today," she said in parting. "You'll be needing it tonight."
"I'll make a note."
Their breakfast was another freeze-dried meal, some kind of lumpy scrambled-egg concoction laced with colorful but tasteless cubes of meat and vegetables. Someone's conception of an omelet, Remo guessed, though he couldn't have sworn to the ID if he we
re under oath.
The best thing about bad food, he decided, was its tendency to vanish quickly; no one lingered to savor the experience before they were scraping plates and trooping down to the stream for K.P. duty. They were packed, including tents, inside of forty minutes from the time they first sat down to eat.
The jungle had begun to subtly change, thought Remo as they struck another trail beyond the clearing and resumed their eastward march. Not so much in appearance—which was standard tropic rain forest, from what he could observe—but more in terms of atmosphere. There was a darker feel about the new terrain; Remo would have been hard-pressed to put it into words, except to say that it felt dangerous, if not precisely evil. There was less room to maneuver on the trail, the jungle pressing closer on each side than it had the day before, and the mosquitoes came in greater numbers, reinforced by swarms of biting gnats and flies.
And they were being followed, yes indeed. The tail was back there, keeping a respectful distance, but maintaining contact all the same.
He thought once more about surprising their pursuers, falling back to search them out and wreak a little havoc for the hell of it, find out exactly who or what was on their trail. But Audrey kept on glancing back at Remo, smiling even when the heat and insects started getting to her, and he knew that she would sound the first alarm if she looked back and found him gone. Tonight, perhaps, if there was time and he could get a fix on their prospective enemies. A visit to the other camp in darkness might be just what Dr. Renton ordered.
In the meantime, Remo concentrated on the trail and his companions. Audrey working up a sweat in front of him, the rich aroma of her body wafting back to Remo on a sluggish jungle breeze. He put the stirring mental images on hold and checked the others, starting with their guide and working backward down the line. The men demonstrated varied levels of endurance, Remo saw, but none showed any signs of dropping from exhaustion. Up in front, their Malay pointman set a steady pace without demanding any superhuman effort. He appeared to have the oldest member of the team in mind, and Remo caught him glancing back at Dr. Stockwell every hundred yards or so, as if to reassure himself that the professor still had energy enough to carry on.
So far so good.
Three hours later, they stopped to rest for fifteen minutes, and Audrey winked on the sly before she settled next to Stockwell.
"Tell me, Audrey," the professor said, "have you seen anything unusual about the native flora?"
Audrey thought about the question for a moment, finally shook her head. "Not really, Safford. Much of what we see is rather primitive, of course—the ferns and fungi, obviously—but there's nothing I'd call prehistoric on the face of it. No fossil species sprung to life, by any means."
"An ordinary jungle, then?"
"In essence," she replied. "But we're not looking for a plant, remember. If I had to guess, I'd say that isolation would be more important to survival of an ancient species than specific flora. Even herbivores are fairly versatile, unless you're dealing with koala bears."
Their guide, Kuching Kangar, had seemed to follow the exchange with interest, though it was impossible to say how much he understood until he spoke.
"Nagaq eats meat," he said to no one in particular.
Professor Stockwell blinked and frowned. "A carnivore?"
The little Malay shrugged. "Eats meat," he said again.
"You've heard this from your people, I suppose?"
"Nagaq ate my datuk," the guide responded, slipping into Malay.
"His grandfather," Sibu Sandakan translated.
"What?" Professor Stockwell was amazed. "He surely cannot mean—"
"We hear him screams," the guide said, interrupting Stockwell. "Run down to the river where he go for water. Find his arm, kiri."
"The left one," Sandakan filled in, appearing shaken.
"Also, tracks left by Nagaq," the guide went on. "This big."
He held his hands apart, three feet or so, then let them fall into his lap. The story of his grandfather's annihilation seemed to conjure nothing in the way of strong emotion.
"When did all this happen?" Audrey asked.
"Two years gone, maybe three."
"What bloody rot," Pike Chalmers said. "It must have been a crocodile."
"No crocodile that big," the guide replied. If he was angered by the tall Brit's open skepticism, he concealed it well.
"My God, that's food for thought," Professor Stockwell said. "That is… I mean to say… "
"It's all right, Safford," Audrey told him, resting one hand on his sunburned arm. "I'm sure he didn't take offense."
"Nagaq eat meat," their guide repeated with a twitchy little smile, then scrambled to his feet and grabbed his pack.
"Rest over," he informed them. "We go now."
The Master of Sinanju had no difficulty following his quarry. Even on the river, it was child's play, watching for the point where they had landed their canoes and made a sad attempt at hiding them. The boats were tucked away behind some ferns, but no real effort had been made to sweep away the tracks where they were dragged ashore, and footprints from the several amateurs were everywhere.
The game was that much easier when they began the rough trek overland. Their clumsy boots left imprints that a blind man could have followed, tapping with his cane, and there were other signs, besides. A broken sapling. Scratches on a tree, where someone's gear had scraped the bark. A stone inverted, kicked aside to bare the worms beneath it. Fronds and branches cut with a machete where the trail was overgrown and they were forced to clear a path. Great imprints from their buttocks where they stopped to rest.
Remo was better than the others, granted, but he still left traces that the Master of Sinanju could detect with only minor concentration. In a contest, it wouldn't be good enough, but Remo surely would have chosen better footwear and equipment if the choice were his to make.
Chiun had started out a day behind the Stockwell expedition, giving them a night to sleep at Dampar, picking out a charter speedboat that would quickly shave their lead. He was an hour and a half behind them when he acquired the canoe, with no white men in the boat to hold him back once Chiun applied himself to paddling at speed. His quarry had no more than forty minutes' lead time when the Master beached his boat and took the time to hide it properly, where no man would discover it without a thorough, time-consuming search.
At that, Chiun was almost forced to view his tracking prowess as a handicap of sorts. He could have overtaken Remo and the others in an hour at the most, and shadowed them from killing distance, but he had no wish to baby-sit.
And after fifteen minutes on the jungle trail, he knew there was another problem that he must examine first, before he showed himself to Remo.
Stockwell's expedition had a tail.
He couldn't say another tail, because the faceless strangers had begun their hunt ahead of him. For all Chiun knew, they may have been in place before the expedition left K.L. They had made no effort to surprise the expedition yet, but they were armed and therefore dangerous—at least to whites with no appreciation of Sinanju.
Master Chiun had sensed the enemy before he covered half a mile on foot, then took time to sort the scents and general impressions that combined to let him know an adversary was at hand. He left the trail at once and moved wraithlike through the forest to pick up a second track that paralleled the first. The boots that trod this path were older, more run-down than those of Stockwell's expedition, and they were more numerous. He counted seventeen distinct and separate signatures along the way, including two men wearing sandals soled with rubber cut from blown-out tires. A smell of gun oil lingered on the air.
Chiun followed them that day, observed their progress, counted heads and weapons. They were Malay, with a couple of Chinese—the sandal-wearers—and their weapons, plus a motley sort of uniform patched up from camouflage fatigues and faded denim, readily identified them as guerrillas. Since he spoke no Malay, and the Chinese didn't use their native tongue, Chiu
n could only speculate upon their motive for pursuing Dr. Stockwell's party. Even so, their motive, while obscure, was clearly not benevolent.
Chiun considered falling on them from behind and winnowing the ranks, or traveling ahead to meet them on the trail, pretend to be an ancient, fragile pilgrim until they were close enough to strike, but he finally decided to do nothing for the moment. When in doubt, if there was no emergency at hand, a wise assassin limited his action to the gathering of information, all the better to react appropriately once his target was identified.
With that in mind, he broke off the surveillance and moved on to pick up Stockwell's trail. He shadowed Remo and the others on their first day's march and watched them from the overhanging branches of a great tree as they set up camp. Chiun considered stealing in to speak with Remo, when the others were asleep, but he had faith in Remo to detect the common enemy, and there was little he could add beyond a physical description of their foe.
And by that time, of course, the woman had begun distracting Remo from his task. She was a brazen hussy, little better than a common prostitute, the way she bared her flesh to Remo on such short acquaintance. Chiun couldn't decide if her seductive actions were deliberate, a piece of conscious strategy toward unknown ends, or whether she was simply what the white men called a slut, devoid of self-restraint and moral fiber.
Either way, Chiun had witnessed Remo's personal response with disapproval. The Master was prim, and he well remembered a recent attachment that had surprised him at the time… though he also knew that these days the young were promiscuous. Even then, it was not so much the fact that Remo chose to grant the hussy's wish—although Chiun had warned him more than once about the risks of sacrificing vital energy through sex, when he was on a mission for Emperor Harold Smith—as in his pupil's blatant disrespect for the time-honored methods of Sinanju.
Remo made no effort whatsoever to begin the mating properly, by seeking out the woman's pulse and forcing it to escalate. Maybe, Chiun thought, it was the memory of Jean Rice that hampered his style. He skipped some of the classic steps and duplicated others, stopping cold before he had completed even the most basic ritual for bringing female flesh to ecstasy. Chiun could not deny the woman's rapture even so, but he would have to speak with Remo later and remind him of the need to follow through in everything.
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